She battled as she never had before. She tried to release the blade, to let it fall to the ground. She tried to move its tip so that her heart wouldn't be pierced. She tried to flee the chamber. But her hands were not her own, her feet, it seemed, were held by invisible shackles, her aim was perfectly, lethally true.
"No!" she screamed, her voice echoing off the ceiling and walls.
And still, her hands, steady, strong, sure, guided the blade into her chest, as if they had been waiting to do so all her life.
It hurt less than she thought it would. Mostly she felt cold. Her legs gave out and she dropped to the floor.
"Damn you," she managed to mutter, as darkness took her.
But already the a'laq was getting to his feet and leaving the chamber. He gave no indication that he had heard.
The guards were at the door before he reached it, concern etched on their faces.
"We heard a scream, A'Laq," one of them said. "Are you all right?"
P'Crath nodded. He had no time for this. He wanted only to find Z'Feni, his wife, and see his daughter. Z'Feni had looked so frightened a few moments before, when she came to the chamber seeking him. Was their beloved child dead already? Or was there still time to save her?
"I'm fine. The Eandi woman is dead. Have her removed from the chamber."
"Yes, A'Laq," the man said.
P'Crath was already past him, striding toward the inner courtyard. He quickly navigated the corridors of the old Eandi palace, until he came to the arched entranceway to the court. Cold air crept into the hallways through the open door, but P'Crath didn't care. Z'Feni stood just outside, tears on her face reflecting the glow of a bright fire that burned on the far side of the court. The small pool at the center of the space reflected the flames and the dark orange sky, the waters rippled by the wind. Between the fire and the pool lay B'Asya, covered by several blankets, her face damp with sweat, her eyes closed.
"She's finally asleep," Z'Feni said, her eyes fixed on their child. "We have to do this now."
"The healers gave her a tonic?" P'Crath said, looking at her.
"It was the only way. As it was, she nearly killed the man who gave it to her. And now he fears that he'll become ill as well."
"Did he get that near to her?"
Z'Feni grimaced and nodded.
"Where is he now?" P'Crath asked.
"I sent him away and told him not to return for ten days."
The a'laq nodded. "Good." He looked out at B'Asya again. "Let's get started then."
"What if it doesn't work?" his wife asked, taking his hand. "What if you can't heal her? Maybe she needs to be awake."
"I don't know," the a'laq said. He was leader of the sept. He was a Weaver; he could wield all forms of Qirsi magic. But in the face of this pestilence, P'Crath felt utterly helpless. It was an unsettling sensation for him, One that he felt compelled to hide from his wife, though as a Weaver herself, she probably felt much the same way. "I choose to believe that it will work."
She nodded, giving his hand a squeeze. "Yes, all right."
P'Crath released her hand and closed his eyes. He took a long, steadying breath, and then reached to his daughter with his mind and magic. Sensing her, feeling immediately how weak she had grown, he stepped into her dreams.
He had done such a thing many times before. Weavers often communicated with each other in this way, reaching forth with their minds over many leagues to enter the dreams of those who led other septs. In this way, the a'laqs of all the Fal'Borna could work together against a common enemy or alert one another to approaching danger. This was how he had first learned of this pestilence that was sweeping across the plain.
But never before had P'Crath experienced anything like this. His daughter's thoughts were disjointed and alien, as if the fever that gripped her body had also addled her mind. He saw and heard things he didn't understand. B'Asya stood before him surrounded by a blazing, swirling cloud, as if she were in the midst of a storm of flame. She writhed, her mouth open as if she were howling in pain, though P'Crath heard not a sound from her. Her eyes were open, panicked, unseeing. He called to her, but she didn't respond.
He took a step toward her, but before he could draw nearer, without warning, it struck at him. He doubled over, the abrupt pain in his gut enough to bring tears to his eyes and make him gag. He dropped to his knees and retched until his throat ached. He knew this was not some image conjured by his daughter's fever; this was real. He tried to break away from her, to sever the connection he had forged between his mind and hers, but he couldn't. It seemed that she clung to him, though whether she did so blindly or out of fear or out of some delusion-induced malice, he couldn't say. He knew only that however weak she had seemed a moment before, her grip on him was impossibly strong.
He forced his eyes open, but still could see only the vision in B'Asya's mind. Z'Feni was calling his name, sounding terrified. That much he knew.
"Get away from here!" he shouted.
He felt her hand on his back and he shrugged her off.
"Get away from me! Now! While you still can!"
Gods! His stomach hurt! But more, he felt it creeping through his body, like molten rock in his veins. And he knew. Bian help him, he knew.
B'Asya had only just come into her power. She might well have wielded all the magics of a Weaver someday, if only the pestilence hadn't taken her. But P'Crath remained at the height of his powers. Fire, shaping, healing, mists and winds, language of beasts. He had them all, and he sensed that all of them were being unleashed. He tried to resist, to hold back his magic, at least until Z'Feni could heed his warnings and get away. But he felt as if he were standing in the middle of a river, attempting to block the current. He hadn't the strength or the will; he didn't even know how to make the attempt.
"Get away!" he called out again.
Nven as the words crossed his lips, he felt the magic slip out. Shaping. He heard the stone wall of the house collapse, heard Z'Feni, his wife, his love, cry out in terror.
Too late, he understood. Just as this pestilence struck at Qirsi magic, as well as at the body and the mind, it was passed along by magic. That was why this was happening to him. He hadn't gone near B'Asya-B'Asya, who was lost to him!-but he had touched her mind with his own, her magic with his. And in forging that bond, he had opened himself to her affliction.
P'Crath felt the power building inside him again, terrible and immense, overwhelming and irresistible. He tried to steer the power into one of the less destructive magics; away from shaping or fire or even wind, which, if uncontrolled, would do nearly as much damage as the other two. Before he'd even made a conscious choice, he felt the air around him growing cold and damp. Yes, a mist. What harm could come from a mist?
"P'Crath, stop it!" Z'Feni cried out. "You're killing the fire! You're going to kill her!"
It was getting colder and colder. Z'Feni was right. Still linked to his daughter, he could feel her shivering, and worse, he could feel her reaching for her fire magic again, even as she slept. The urgency she felt as she tried to access her magic was almost a match for the force of power within him. How could he hope to stop her when he couldn't even stop himself? All this from his mist. What harm, indeed. He forced his eyes open, trying again to break free of B'Asya's mind.
"Can't you stop?" Z'Feni asked him.
"No!" he managed to say. "I can't! Don't you see? It's got me as well. You have to get away from me; away from us!"
His wife gaped at him. She seemed so far away already, though he knew that she was right there with him, close enough to breathe the air he breathed, to feel his magic, to be killed by this disease that would surely kill him.